The Veneer of Chess
by Whispers To Kill
Summary: Time had taught and bestowed within them many a horrific memory. To the outside watcher they played a simple, painless game of chess, but inside each mind of the two players they read the tragedies each suffered within their moves. They caressed one another, for the world is harsh, and under the pretense of chess they confessed to one another, understood each other and comforted.


Opaque shards of frustration, the heavy steel of concentration, the clear cut of determination and the rigged malleability of stubborn intelligence crafted narrow eyes and skewered details upon both faces; they were faces masked with a shrewdness to disconcert the complexity of their hobby. However in contrary to the gentle, knowledgeable, and adoring smile that graced the strapping and unrelenting male, her lips were the gift of the less-confident and faltering - almost that of a child.

His gaze left her terribly self-conscious of every flick her wrist emitted to move the baroque pieces of the chess set, yet his demeanor left her in wonderment. The rumble of his voice held the humbled superiority of a teacher; the high-held importance of concepts he revered rung like a bell, his questions and his answers, and his preaching's and light chidings for moves and mistakes one should be aware of were soft as the wind and as graceful as a brother. Adoration for this girl and the lessons he wished to bestow shone clearly and purely; there hung in the air a reverence for time spent and respect for all entwined.

"You know better than that."

So the bishop whisked away the knight: how cruel. His form shifted from his formerly relaxed position with the ruffle of stiff cotton and a heave of the weight of the strong. The agile fingers of a soldier guided his hand to reset the pieces; he was poised tall and intelligent, his eyes naturally thinned from years of crooning into the horizon and watching the dark; his expression pierced straight through her own.

"Reevaluate the board, Katyusha. Every man serves a purpose and every man can be destroyed by another; with each set you have the availability to dictate the rise and fall of each piece, however that also gives you the authority to create your own demise. If you are too lose another piece, then let it not be in vain; also, do not let yourself become so immersed in either your demise or that of the other that your focus becomes so narrow that the goal of the game becomes hidden."

He held within him an ability to both be her greatest fear and her greatest comfort. Horrifying years of teetering upon the edge of sanity, burdened by the endless scars of agonizing abuse and the shadows of history, terrorized by the family she adored and bitter poverty had installed inside her a deep anxiety and insecurity. How could the mistakes she suffered be the fault of anyone but herself? Here he was inducing her upon this game of chess, and how could she - such a simple, agricultural girl - possess the ability to comprehend and compete in this round when he was such a luxurious and educated man?

Nevertheless, he paid her the compliment and belief that not only was she capable of this feat but that she also deserved to understand; with his love he blessed her with confidence - a privilege she'd never once experienced previous to his touch.

"So, if the rook had taken your knight instead then that might have posed a threat and saved my own knight," her reply finally rang into the air and twisted with uncertainty. He heaved a sigh and began a reply the rumbled the chords in his throat before moving forward in a smooth, restrained baritone that shivered in the atmosphere.

"You underestimate the abilities of the pawn; you had the power to prevent the loss of all your pieces. There is a power in one space that sometimes we do not realize, Katyusha. A pawn is equivalent to a young soldier; though he is less experienced, young, and weaker than some friends and some foes, he is neither incapable nor useless. He is learning vigilance, he is gaining experience and he is full of surprises; a pawn may save the life of many others. And at times he is even braver, for a pawn sacrifices often young in the game and can never see the outcome of his achievements or the height of the goal he has dedicated himself to - a most honorable act."

An honorable act is it - to be innocent? Oh, he was worn and the dirt was buried deep within his skin for the wars he had fought and all he had suffered; victory is a glorious path, and victory is a writer, but victory is not a happy soul. War corrupts the mind of every man to walk its wake; it spreads maggots to blind the eyes and rats to eat at the walls of the heart. War cripples the mothers; it shatters a boy's dreams and robs him of peace. The whispers of the silence become the whispers of those he has murdered; the whispers of all voices become the whispers of the companion he watched scream on the deathbed. The scent of gangrene and skin soaked in rain water burrowed itself within his nostrils; the taste of putrid meat and bloating of dehydration stained his tongue forever. The scars of the bullets he met are a reminder of the sins he will never repent for. A soldier is lied to in the name of his country, and forever a soldier will lie be it in the grave or his posture as he pretends it's all in the past - he's happy, he's married, he has met peace and has children.

But the face in the mirror is not his own - it never will be.

This regret was tunneled within the depths of Ludwig's blood; all the eras cruelty (albeit there was much more to the time than himself), deservingly weights upon his shoulders in a burden that he will forever possess. There was a consistent veneer of strength, law and morality to this man, yet he had suffered living as the hand of evil and eyes of human sin with a viciousness that tore his heart to worthless, breathless shreds. It was a veneer she, Katyusha, saw through, and with the tenderness of a mother and the gentleness of a lover sought to soothe. Delicate hands stroked his cheek though the nightmares and coddled his form against her with warm honey drinks and hushing words during the nights when the ghost whispers of his past shook him too roughly. She caressed him was adoration, and pampered his tastes to degree of sugar and warmth his fingertips had never brushed. Her breath was a lullaby that eased the air from his constricted lung, stitched together his wounds, starched his bleeding and closed his cuts with the sweet, light touch of her lips. His remedy, his only sweet dream, his only simple breath.

But life is much harsher than a game of chess - much harsher indeed when it is the lives of the others and never the life of your own. Oh, to be a country, only a plot of land... Why had they been given eyes and heart when all it ever bred was pain?

* * *

_"I once heard of a murderer who propped his two victims up against a chess board in sporting attitudes and was able to get as far as Seattle before his crime was discovered."_

_- Robert Benchley_


End file.
